When I was in the band in middle school, I used to come home and go over my new songs for my mom. I came home one day excited about our upcoming concert. I wanted to make sure my mom would be present and near the front row. After all, there were only a few of us Blacks in the band. And my band director had put together what he thought was a stellar concert. I thought so too. Until my mother heard me practice my songs.
She stopped me dead in my tracks after verifying with my father what she had just heard. She asked if I knew what I had just played, and I told her the name of the song and said, “yeah.” Well, the name I gave her was some fancy name, but the tune I had just played was “Dixie.” Oh, you don’t know Dixie? Well, it goes a little something like this when it has words:
O
, I wish I was in the land of cotton
Old times there are not forgotten
Look away! Look away!
Look away! Dixie Land.
In Dixie Land where I was born in
Early on one frosty mornin’
Look away! Look away!
Look away! Dixie Land.
Chorus:
O, I wish I was in Dixie!
Hooray! Hooray!
In Dixie Land I’ll take my stand
To live and die in Dixie
Away, away,
Away down south in Dixie!
Old Missus marry Will, the weaver,
William was a gay deceiver
Look away! Look away!
Look away! Dixie Land.
But when he put his arm around her
He smiled as fierce as a forty pounder
Look away! Look away!
Look away! Dixie Land.
Chorus:
O, I wish I was in Dixie!
Hooray! Hooray!
In Dixie Land I’ll take my stand
To live and die in Dixie
Away, away,
Away down south in Dixie!
His face was sharp as a butcher’s cleaver
But that did not seem to grieve her
Look away! Look away!
Look away! Dixie Land.
Old Missus acted the foolish part
And died for a man that broke her heart
Look away! Look away!
Look away! Dixie Land.
Chorus:
O, I wish I was in Dixie!
Hooray! Hooray!
In Dixie Land I’ll take my stand
To live and die in Dixie
Away, away,
Away down south in Dixie!
My momma blasted that director from Ga. to La. right there in our kitchen. I was embarrassed by her anger until she explained the song. “Do you know what Dixie IS?!” “No.” “Well, Dixie is when Blacks were slaves. That’s what the land of cotton is, and my Black child is not playing no song celebrating that.” There was no room for me to protest.
I believe she called a few other Black parents, but on concert day, I was the only one who was not allowed to join in that selection. She almost pulled me from the whole concert. My white band director couldn’t understand all the fuss since it was just a song celebrating “our” rich Southern heritage. Guess he missed the part in history class where slavery wasn’t all that rich for the slaves. My great grandfather, whom I knew, was the son of slaves and was born right after the end of slavery. He lived to be 99, which is how I got to know him. He founded the local NAACP in his county, and he might’ve awakened from his senility had I played that Dixie song that day. I’m glad I didn’t, but I tell you this just to give you a picture of how the South reinforces its status quo early on, and I’m not even that old. This happened in modern times, and on a side note, there are still Southerners who are mad about the outcome of the Civil War. No lie. So given my Southern roots and family background (my uncles marched with Dr. King as children and one went on to become a major civil rights leader), you may understand my outrage at what follows.
This deeply disturbs me. Please read it and come back. Now, read this about Genarlow Wilson down in Georgia. His case is very much like Marcus Dixon’s, also in Georgia, except that Genarlow’s crime is far worse. He had……hold your ears and cover your eyes…..oral sex, a crime that carries a far harsher sentence. Fortunately, unlike in Dixon’s case, the willing participant was not white. But I guess it’s not so fortunate if he’s still in jail.
There is an attack on Black men everywhere, but as is historically the case, it takes on epic proportions in the New South, that in my opinion, looks and sounds very much like the Old. In accounts of the Jena 6 and the Wilson case, whites in both communities claim that they have no racial problems. I saw a snippet of the video from the Wilson case somewhere on the web, and arguably, the most damning part in question is the part for which he was not found guilty. Even so, the lesser charge is the one that the DA is determined to make stick, even though the law used to convict Wilson has been amended because of the case. But in Ga., a new law can’t be applied unless the powers that be say so, and in this case, they don’t say so. And in La., it seems as if Wilson won’t be the only Black Southern youth in jail with an unjust sentence.
Disclaimer: I am neither advocating teen sex nor teen violence, okay. Now, move on.
We (most Blacks) know there are inequities in the justice system across the board, but in areas where it’s less blatant, there may be discrepancies in sentencing and arrests where an actual crime has been committed but there could have been a harsher punishment. In the South, racist whites have mustered up their old courage again and are flying their flag higher than ever. You know the one with the special bars and stripes minus some stars and 11 stripes. As a native of the deep South, this sickens me to my stomach. Many of us thought gone were the days of Emmett Till,
but I’m not so sure. We know the formula quite well. It always begins with a little fear and intimidation. Combine a dose of deception to convince Blacks that they are powerless. Mentally subdue them into submission, and physically imprison them to further underscore the rights that they do not have. “Stay in your place niggers.” That’s the message you’re supposed to get. And if you think it can’t happen to you or yours, just remember that a “threat to justice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere.”
At some point, we have to be like Fannie Lou Hamer and get sick and tired of being sick and tired. Our civil rights generation parents, in many cases, didn’t tell us enough of what segregation was really like for us to never be hoodwinked or bamboozled by racism again. We’re too busy chasing the god of materialism. And forr those who believe that we live in a colorblind society where racism isn’t real are foolish. Keep believing that until someone comes with a noose for you. Oh yeah, you hadn’t heard? Lynchings still occur, Black man, Black woman. Don’t keep your head in the sand. Justice is not blind, but she can be ignorant.
And I, for one, plan to do something. The first step is educating you to what’s going on in the world around us. And you best believe that I’ll be tuned in to www.gasupreme.us at 10am EST this morning to see the latest in the Wilson case. After one judge threw out the unjust sentence, the DA appealed to keep Wilson in prison. Today, we find out which the state supreme court will support. I.will.be.watching. And then, I plan to keep on screaming, fighting, yelling, and writing until “justice rolls down like a mighty stream.” And if I don’t see it in my lifetime, well, neither did Malcolm or Dr. King, but I won’t quit fighting, or I am not fit to live.
Unlike many whose ancestors left the South never to return, I feel that the South is mine. My family’s blood is spilled there. The dirt where we still plant has been fertilized with the sweat and tears of slaves, my ancestors. Their bones make the beds of our rivers. Their blood grips the roots of the trees where their children were/are slain. And the dust of their restless spirits blows in every summer’s breeze. That place that exists in a time outside of time, with its steel magnolias and juleps of mint, is bequeathed to the children of those who cultivated her.
And I don’t care what anybody says. Black people own the South, even if we do not yet run it, because we earned it. It is “our” house, and we must protect our house. We’ve made contributions all over this country, but we own the South. America at least owes us that. And YES, I said owes because I do believe we are owed something for generations of inequity. Write a Congressman, the judges, somebody, and let your voice be heard. Don’t let these young boys be victimized in the exact same manner as those before them.
Of one thing you can be sure, wherever I am, there will be no “Dixie” whistling on my lips.